Bright

By Mary O Paddock

"I still love you, Hannah, so I want you to die in peace," Clint whispered in her ear. "I just want you to know, your children won’t feel a thing. I’ll take good care of them."

"Hannah turned back briefly, locked eyes with him. "Not if I get there first."

Clint said something obscene. The gun fired again. Her body spasmed. Her last breath left like a noisy bird, but she was far away at sea and it did not matter.

 

Hannah Whitmire's body may lie on the forest floor a hundred miles from home, but her spirit is upright and determined. She must get to her children before the murderer does. The question is—how?  She can’t drive and the living—most of them at least—can’t hear her. Hannah is on her own.

Or is she?

Bright is more than just a ghost story--it's about love, forgiveness, and courage. It's about the people who Hannah affects along the way, the young detective trying to find her killer, and her children's dawning realization that their mother was so much more than they imagined her to be. 

If you love supernatural thrillers that touch the heart, pick up Bright today!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary O. Paddock
• Release date: Dec 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781078755542

Book preview

comfortable.

One

Nine am to Nine-ten: Make the coffee.

Nine-ten to Nine-twenty-five: Shower and dress.

Nine-twenty-five to Nine-forty: Stare futilely into the mirror willing time to open up and swallow your mistakes. Or, in lieu of that, you.

Nine-forty to Ten am: Give up on time travel and take your husband his coffee.

Ten am to ten-o-one: Admit to your husband that you’ve had an affair.

Ten-o-one to forever: Attempt to pick up the pieces of your marriage.

The previous night Hannah sent the boys and the dog to Sarah’s, allowing her sister to assume she and Jeff wanted some time alone, and allowing Jeff to assume Sarah had invited them. The house was quiet: no X-box, no loud music, no requests for rides. Nothing stood between Hannah and telling her husband the truth except years of unbreached dead air.

Jeff sat at the desk in the glass-enclosed sunroom, eyes scanning an online news site. She put his coffee down beside him, and he thanked her without looking up.

Hannah seated herself in a straight-backed leather chair near his desk and studied her husband, noting the gray hair around his temples, the golfer’s tan, and the blue-gray eyes that seemed to measure everything, even his family, in terms of its return. She thought about the 25 years they’d shared and exactly how she’d arrived at the place she was in.

I don’t have anyone to blame but myself. I knew what I was getting into when I married him. I knew he wasn’t demonstrative, and I knew he wasn’t a talker.

But it was better in the beginning, wasn’t it? Early in their relationship, she was the one person Jeff trusted with himself because he’d told her so. And though he didn’t talk much, when he had something to say, it was profound, and it always mattered. Back then, the path between them was filled with night time journeys into one another’s whispered thoughts. The rest of the time, he contentedly listened to her prattle, and she contentedly prattled.

When did it change? Was it when the boys were born, and she had her hands full just keeping them from killing the goldfish and her house plants? Was it when Riana hit twelve, and her mouth became her greatest weapon? When did she give up hazarding the distance between the two of them only to find Jeff uncommunicative and ungiving when she got there? Did he even notice when she stopped trying?

He was a good man. Everyone said so. He came home from work every night like clockwork, mowed the yard on the weekends, played golf, thanked her for the meals she cooked, and always bought her a pink bathrobe for Christmas. He never demanded his way, wasn’t abusive, and never shouted. But he didn’t talk to her or touch her either.

Jeff, she said finally. We need to talk about something.

He tore his eyes away from an article with a picture of a crying Iraqi woman. Can it wait a few minutes?

She wanted to say yes. It could wait forever. He never had to know about Clint. But if she never let him know that she’d stayed when she could have gone, nothing would ever change.

Jeff finally seemed to realize the conversation could not be put off, even for a few minutes. He pressed the button on the computer monitor, watched the screen fade to black, and turned in the swiveling chair to face her. Are the kids okay?

Yeah. They’re fine. She waited for the words to arrive in the right order. None of them wanted the job.

Is it your sister?

She’s fine. There must be a set of syllables, some soft combination of sounds which could make this easier to hear.

Her body arranged itself around her as though bracing for impact. Jeff... I’ve made a horrible mess.

Once he realized it wasn’t about anyone but her, his concern faded, replaced by the blank, objective expression he wore when he analyzed a proposed financial risk. As though she was a series of numbers that he could calculate in terms of pluses and minuses. She hated that expression. She was tired of objective. For a second, it was easy to hurt him. I’ve been seeing another man.

For a full two minutes, he stared at the floor, the only sign that he heard her, a nod. When he did speak, his voice was strained. Who?

She’d anticipated this question. Nobody you know.

More forcefully. What. Is. His. Name?

It doesn’t matter.

Where did you meet him?

Through work. He was a client.

And you’re not going to tell me his name.

No. At least not yet.

Not one to waste energy arguing, he moved on. Have you ended it?

Yes. And because there was nothing else to say, she could only wait for him.

Do you love him?

She shook her head. The admission made the deed worse. Little better than self-gratification. Though she couldn’t remember Jeff ever raising his voice about anything, she fervently wished he would this time. Demand to know why I did this. Anything but silence.

But the well he dipped into for the few words he possessed was already empty. And his face changed before her eyes; lines appeared in places she’d never seen lines in before, as though folding up in slow motion.

Jeff. I’ve been trying to tell you—

Don’t. Just don’t.

He stood.

Where are you going?

I don’t know.

She sat back in the chair and closed her eyes, feeling the chill of the leather against her bare forearms, listening to his fading footsteps in the quiet house. The front door opened. A long pause followed. She half-rose, hoping she could make him come back and yell at her.

The slam shook the pictures on the wall.

The car revved, tires squealed, and he was gone.

Hannah imploded. Wept. Wished she’d never been born. Or, in lieu of that, death.

Two

Two weeks ago

Hannah tried to ignore the toe of Clint’s boot trailing the length of her instep for the second time. She was grateful for the semi-darkness of the windowless diner that hid not only their feet, but her flushed face. The gesture was designed to stoke a fire. And it did. But she just couldn’t. Not today.

She should have left this paperwork with the office secretary instead of agreeing to meet him for coffee. Using her hand and forearm, she gently pushed their empty coffee cups aside, aligning them with the catsup and mustard and the small sign advertising the diner’s daily special. Working lunch, she murmured, pulling an ink pen and manila folder from her bag. Remember?

A smile slid across Clint’s sunbaked face. I remember you said it was going to be one. I don’t remember agreeing to it.

You did. She tapped the manila folder. Paperwork. Sign it and we can get back to work.

I don’t want to go back to work. Again with the foot.

Two one-track minds colliding. She steeled herself against the current snaking through her and slid her feet back out of his reach. Not today. Sometimes I think you need a new real estate broker. Here. Sign.

He plucked the pen from her fingers and scribbled his name in the first blank. Something bothering you?

How was she supposed to answer that? Did she confess that she woke the previous morning and, for a panicked moment, couldn’t remember whether she’d ever actually left Clint’s the evening before?

If she did, she’d have to tell him that she’d heard the steady, familiar snore of her husband and exhaled in relief. And that for a wild few seconds, she’d considered inching across the bed and putting her arms around him. But clinging to Jeff because she was relieved she hadn’t been caught in a lie, took cheating to a level she wasn’t ready to descend to.

Clint wouldn’t press her to share, something she’d previously liked about their relationship. I’ve just got things to do, Clint.

Like what? The pen flew across the blank.

Like I’m behind on paperwork like this. And I’ve got to go grocery shopping. You know, the usual. There’s a blank at the bottom.

Scribble. A page turn. And after that?

Initial here. She tapped the paper. The boys have soccer games.

He scribbled something approximating letters. Sometimes I hate soccer.

Sometimes I do too. In truth, she didn’t mind the soccer as much as she did the conversations about why she missed the games. I’ve got responsibilities, Clint. You know that.

He stretched backward in his chair, retrieving his wallet from his pocket. Pulling out a couple of bills without looking at them, he put them under his empty water glass. I do know. I’ve been thinking about that. We need to talk about where this is going.

Oh? She braced herself for the awaited This isn’t working for me anymore... And was surprised to find herself hoping for it.

He held her eyes as he donned a ball cap with the Lockwood Construction logo lettered across the crown, wiggling it until tufts of blonde-going-to gray hair glinted from beneath the brim. It’s not like that, Hannah.

Her heart froze for a half-second.

What? He smiled at her.

I can’t keep doing this. I need out. I... The words died en route to her mouth. Until that moment, she’d liked that smile. It had a dangerousness about it that warned of a take-no-prisoners passion for anyone brave enough to risk it, something she’d been starved for. But as he stood there watching her, she saw nothing of the promised passion. She shook her head wordlessly.

Clint leaned over, grabbed her hand, and squeezed it.

She tried to pull away, but the grip tightened. The smile vanished for a split second, and she read the coded message it left on an immobile, hard face. He let go, the smile returning as though it never left.

Hannah Whitfield stared after her lover as he moved through the crowded diner and pushed the door open with his shoulder. Midday sun spilled down the stairs behind him, leaving his face in half-shadow, but he was looking at her.

Behind him, she could hear the city street—the hum of traffic just outside the diner, someone tapping their horn at someone who’d turned without signaling; a siren wailed two blocks over, coming closer and fading. An impossible cold spring wind whipped through the open door, and all the diners between her table and the exit glanced his way irritably.

Newspapers billowed, crackling in people’s hands; napkins left tables and glided across the floor, evading the grasps of waitresses and customers. But Clint didn’t move until she raised her hand, the same one he’d squeezed, and waved. The door shifted under his shoulder, sunlight and shadow swallowed him. An instant later it was just the closed door, the inside of the diner, and business as usual for everyone except Hannah, who was still shivering.

The steady drumbeat of guilt, which had played in the background of her life for better than six months, grew louder.

Hannah was familiar with Clint Lockwood’s reputation long before he walked into the real estate office where she worked. He bought large tracts of land, sometimes using high-pressure tactics to get people to part with it, and built high-quality homes on them. He wasn’t well-liked, but he was respected.

He needed a new real estate broker, he said. Did someone have time to talk with him? Hannah’s boss assigned her to work with Clint.

The affair began with a meeting at the dark little diner. It evolved into a conversation permeated with on-the-same-wavelength, in-the-same-boat, under-the-same-rainspout laughter. Soon there were emails, texting, more texting, phone calls, more phone calls, and long unnecessary meetings that ultimately had nothing to do with the reasons scribbled on their desk calendars. And, finally, in the course of one of those meetings, she committed the worst infraction, admitting to the loneliness of being married to someone who did not understand her.

Hannah was a grown up. She knew the playing field of marriage and relationships and where the lines were. The ball flew out of bounds the moment she told Clint all the things she could not tell her husband. And she had every intention of throwing it back into play before someone noticed.

But no one seemed to care that her lunch hour was often two. Nor did they comment on how a fourth of the appointments on her calendar didn’t seem to result in new real estate clients. Perhaps after twenty years of marriage, with one kid in college and two in high school, people assumed she was immune. No one could possibly want the frumpy soccer mom, especially not the wealthy owner of Lockwood Construction. Certainly not a man known for the beautiful women on his arm at social functions.

With no one watching and even fewer caring, coffee at the diner became coffee at Clint Lockwood’s house. Admissions led to hand holding and hand holding led to Clint’s bed. Once there, Clint was everything her husband wasn’t; attentive, focused on listening to the things weighing most on her mind. Saying all the things her husband didn’t; that she was beautiful, how he admired her stretch marks because they meant she’d lived and loved, and how her curves fit perfectly in his arms.

For Hannah, the sex was heady, but being talked to was headier. When Clint spoke about the wife who ran away with one of his employees and how the loss left him gun shy, and how he’d sabotaged every relationship he’d had since, she was moved to near tears. Not by the story, but because he was confiding in her.

Their relationship was not about love. Clint as much as said it shortly after the first time they slept together, explaining that he wasn’t looking for an ongoing commitment, just someone to spend some time with, someone who understood him. For now, this works for both of us. When it stops working, it’s over. No harm, no foul. Everybody’s still friends and, as long as we’re both careful, nobody ever has to know, and nobody gets hurt.

At the time, it made perfect sense. They met each other’s needs until they didn’t. She’d even echoed the phrase. No harm, no foul. And most importantly—nobody gets hurt.

After lunch, she called the office and claimed a headache, went to the boys’ soccer games because she couldn’t come up with a reason not to, went home, and made Jeff’s favorite meal, lemon pepper chicken with broccoli in cheese sauce on the side. He ate it in his recliner watching the news.

Afterward, she sent the boys off to clean their rooms, and approached Jeff, still sitting in his recliner, busily tapping on his keyboard.

How was your day? she asked.

He replied with a slight lift of his shoulders and without looking at her. Normal enough.

I guess that’s good. And how was your day, Hannah?

He didn’t say anything else, just kept typing.

I’ve got vacation time coming to me. Do you want to go somewhere after the boys get out of school? Maybe down to the coast? It’s been a few years.

I don’t know. I’m really busy at work right now.

So am I. But we haven’t been anywhere as a family for a long time. Maybe Riana could come too.

I’ll think about it, but I’m not sure I can.

Jeff. The boys will be gone soon, and Riana’s only getting busier. Soon, they won’t have any time for us either.

He exhaled and finally turned his head, resting his eyes on her. But even though he was looking in her direction, she knew that he wasn’t seeing her. I don’t have time for dramatics, Hannah.

Of course, you don’t. Fine. So, when can you spare me a minute? You don’t want me to call you at work. And I can’t talk to you at home because you’re working here too. What does that leave? The golf course?

What do you want from me? he snapped.

For you to really look at me, tell me you love me, that what we’re doing here hasn’t died for you. Your attention, Jeff. I want your attention.

Well, you’ve got it. Are you happy now?

No. No, she wasn’t. And she didn’t have a single clue as to how to fix what was broken. I’m sorry. I know you’re tired. Never mind.

His expression softened and for just a second, she could feel him searching her face for something.

She held still. Maybe he’d see her reaching out to him. And maybe, just once, he’d reach back.

I’m sorry too. Let’s just let it go for now, okay?

All the years of being rushed off the phone, the years of being patted on the head and pushed aside like she was four, rushed forward. She nodded. Sure. Whatever you want.

He returned to the laptop.

Clint’s voice reverberated around inside her head. We need to talk about where this is going, Hannah.

Hannah retreated to the study and sat with her head on the desk, praying no one would come in and see her, then praying someone would.

Riana was home for the weekend. The subject at hand was what to serve for dinner.

Order whatever kind you want, Hannah said. I’m pretty sure the pizza place’s number is already in my list of contacts.

Seriously? Mom? You have the pizza place on auto-dial? Riana raised a well-shaped eyebrow.

I live with three men, Riana. Trust me. It’s a matter of survival.

Her pretty, brunette daughter, a newly converted health nut and vegetarian, blustered. But—pizza? White flour, fatty meat, and preservatives? Couldn’t it at least be Chinese food? That way you could at least pretend it was healthy.

Go ahead. Order Chinese food for them. I dare you. Just remember that Robert hates all things green and Jason hates everything else. Oh—and your dad. He’ll eat anything as long as it doesn’t have any weird spices on it. You know. Like garlic.

Riana’s laughter was buoying. Hannah had missed that.

Hannah had her back turned, was brewing iced tea on the stove. She did not see Riana take a wrong turn while looking for her contacts.

Who is this? Riana asked. And why is he signing off with 'love you forever’?

Hannah spun around in time to catch her daughter’s tense, puzzled expression, but not in time to keep her from scrolling through the texts.

It actually said Luv u 4ever, a key line in a joke about a frog promising a girl he’d turn into a handsome prince and love her forever if she’d just kiss him, but the girl thought talking frogs were neat and put him in her purse. The punchline was probably unfunny to anyone who wasn’t there when Clint told the joke.

Kicking herself for not having deleted the message sooner, Hannah quietly took her cell phone from her daughter. Just a friend.

Do your friends usually sign off like that?

It’s none of your business, Hannah snapped.

Riana was 22 and recognized guilt when she heard it. She narrowed her eyes. Does Dad know about this?

I said it’s none of your business, Riana.

Riana was quiet.

Maybe she’ll just drop it.

Like her father, the girl wasn’t given to emotional displays, but when she spoke again, she used just five fear-filled, gut-wrenching words. Mom, what are you doing?

Hannah looked into her daughter’s serious, so often not smiling, blue-gray eyes. I tell my children the truth. People, who grow up hearing the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable, learn not to lie to themselves.

Riana continued to study her mother’s face. Hannah swallowed all the truths rushing to be heard. Speaking of lies we tell ourselves...

I will explain later, I promise.

Her daughter would not ask again, but she would be watching. And that by itself was weighty enough. With a simple tap on a glass screen, the pretended normalcy of her life evaporated. All that was left was the thrum of failure, defeat, and monstrous regret.

It took three days of ducking Clint’s calls. Three days of arranging and rearranging the words before she admitted she didn’t know any incantations that would make it easier. She just called him.

Hi gorgeous. Long-time no see...

She cut his greeting short. No. Are you alone?

Yeah. But I don’t want to be. Is everything okay?

She took a breath. No. It’s not. Remember how you said we needed to talk about where this was going?

Yes. We still do. But I don’t want to talk like this.

I know. But this is how I need to do it.

Okay. The pleasantness faded from his voice.

It’s not going anywhere, Clint. I can’t. I’m married. And, for better or for worse, I love my husband.

He didn’t reply.

She ran on nervously, told him how much she appreciated him and how he’d helped her rediscover her own strengths and...

He saved her with strained, but gentle words. Can we get together and talk about this?

She anticipated irritation, even some abruptness, but not any attempts to hang on. Though they were fond of one another, both of them knew this could not go on forever. Surprised, she replied, I think it would be a bad idea.

Why?

Because I’m afraid.

Shocked. Of me?

No, of me. Clint, I wish there was a better way to do this, but there’s not.

His silence was loud and she resisted the urge to fill it with explanations. The only words left were hollow and inadequate.

Finally, he spoke, more resolute than gracious, each word enunciated, as though rehearsed. No warmth. Just resignation. I will miss you. I hope it works out for you, Hannah. Call me if you need a friend.

And with that, the affair was over. Her cell phone hung from her fingertips, three inches from her ear. A chill ran up her spine. Her hands shook. The hours she’d shared with Clint dissolved like spun sugar, sweeping away images of their damp bodies clinging together after a climax, his lips on her forehead, his voice in her ear telling her she was incredible. Glasses of sweet tea on the bedside, sunlight streaming in the picture window across from them, talking and laughing, all the while avoiding the inevitable picking up of clothes and going back to their offices and (in her case) family. It swept away the stories she told herself to make everything okay and revealed the stark truth; she had betrayed her husband, cheated, lied, and there was nothing okay about it.

With those thoughts waking her at dawn every day, plaguing her as she went about the business of selling houses and transporting her two sons to and from baseball practice, and with her daughter’s all-too-knowing eyes looking to her to make the right decision, telling Jeff would almost be the easy part.

Three

Present

When Jeff wasn’t home by mid-afternoon, when the waiting for him was at its most excruciating, and when she didn’t think the day could get any worse, Clint called, and it did.

They hadn’t spoken in nearly two weeks. She’d counted on that stretching into forever. Needed it to.

Keep it short. Let him know you aren’t open to conversation right now.

How are you?

Okay. Tired. I’ve talked with Jeff, and he wants to work things out, she lied. Did you have something on your mind?

Yes, I do. I need to come clean with you about something.

Okay. What?

I don’t hope that everything works out for you. And I don’t want to be just your friend.

Hannah held her breath, hoping for his words, which were floating free-form-like in her mind, to reorder themselves into something innocuous.

He doesn’t love you, Hannah. Not the way I do.

She was wordless. What happened to When it stops working, it’s over. No harm, no foul? she wanted to ask, but couldn’t organize the phrase quickly enough.

He went on. I know guys like him. He doesn’t want to lose you because he’s afraid of how it will look—

A few hours ago, she might have agreed with him, but the Jeff who walked out their front door had a lot more to lose than face.

She cut him off. I guess I’ll have to take that risk.

He spoke as though he didn’t hear her. It isn’t about love for him, but it is for me.

That word. The one he said he’d never use. She closed her eyes. Clint. Don’t.

Meet with me. Let’s talk about this in person.

I can’t. The words rode on the back of a sigh.

His tone became more aggressive. You owe me more than a phone call, Hannah, and you know it. Meet me at the Quik-Stop. Please.

Guilted into obedience, she agreed. Maybe she did owe him that much. A cup of coffee in a public place. They could even sit at one of the greasy, red plywood tables where the truckers stopped to eat their lunches.

She dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, with barely a glance in the mirror. She didn’t need to see her face to know she looked ten years older than the last time she shared Clint’s bed. Confession might be good for the soul, but it was hell on the body.

The convenience store was located just west of town, near an underpass. On one side was the business of city living, stop and go traffic, fast-food restaurants, and strip malls. On the other was open highway lined by hay fields, farmhouses, and gravel roads. She pulled into the parking space beside Clint’s large red pickup truck. He was still behind the wheel with the engine running.

He waved her in.

She wanted their parting to be public. Polite, subdued, the antithesis of their first meeting. But maybe it would be better if nobody saw this. She opened the door and made the steep climb to the passenger’s seat.

Grim, pale, and looking like he hadn’t slept in days, Clint sat with both hands locked onto the steering wheel.

This isn’t what we said we’d do.

I know. I want to show you something. He turned the key.

Hannah put on her seatbelt. Where are we going?

It’s a surprise.

Clint—

I know what I said. No harm. No foul. Right? Usually, I’m fine after a week or two. But I’m too far gone this time. I know I should have known better, but I’ve invested too much to let this go.

Clint—

Just this one thing, Hannah. And if you still want to go back to him, I won’t bother you again. It’s only a few minutes away.

They rode in silence, down the highway, taking a sharp left onto a farm road, passing a subdivision, a couple of farms, and an old hound dog trotting down the shoulder. With another hard right, they were traveling a gravel road. Three miles later, they pulled up in front of a construction site. A large two-story frame, the skeleton of a house partly fleshed out, stood before them.

Without comment, Clint glanced at her and back at the site.

Is this one of yours? she asked.

He nodded.

She studied the structure, trying to understand the significance.

It’s got four bedrooms. There’s a big office in the rear with a great view. Or it could be a den.

The place was roughed in. The most efficient framing crew needed at least two months to do the job right. When did you—

About three months ago, I came out here and bought the land. I figured if it didn’t work out, I could just sell the place.

Jesus. Clint... She closed her eyes against the wash of sadness and remorse. What had she done?

His hands quivered slightly, and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The crew and I’ve been working on the weekends—

Her head felt as though someone lifted off the top of her skull and let the wind in. Everything was scattering. She’d been comforted over the last week by how he would not miss her. It was the only good news she’d hung on to. This man sitting across from her was not the man she’d been told he was.

She interrupted, trying to save him. Clint, I care about you, but I don’t love you. At least, not enough to leave my husband. I’m sorry. She gestured to the place in front of them. And I’m sorry about all this. But I can’t. There’s too much at stake.

I don’t believe you. Not after the way he’s treated you. You said yourself that he didn’t understand you and didn’t want to try. You can’t want to go back to that.

He was right. She didn’t want to go